Their End
by aelisa
Summary: Pre-Scrubs. Exploring how Jordan and Perry came to be separated. Jordan/Perry, Jordan/Pete


**Disclaimer: **I don't own Scrubs or any of the characters. I keep hoping that might change. It never does.

**A/N: **Ok, the vast majority of this was written AGES ago. We're talking months here. So it might be a bit disjointed, but I've been umming and aahing about it for a while, and I've finally decided just to post it. Apologies for the potential rubbishability of this.

Pre-Scrubs: I wanted to explore this a little (: And Jordan/Perry needs more love over here, guys!

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She hadn't expected anything different, yet the blaring emptiness of the house stung like a razorblade. Her stomach clenched in a mix of hurt and anger. She was not naïve enough to feel disappointment; she'd been _expecting_ to return to an empty house. That was exactly why she couldn't work out why it bothered her so much that she had. The routine had never been different: he would come home from work late, she would nag at him, he would put her in her place, they would fight, she would leave for her mother's and come back a few days later to a painfully empty house.

Perhaps there was just a part of her that expected something different, something more orthodox, because this time, it was that much more serious. She knew he could sense it too. It was blindingly obvious, even though they did everything the same way. Even though they never broke the routine.

As Jordan Cox set her case down near the front door, she accepted that this was probably because they were both terrified of what was happening between them, to them. Unhappy though they were, as much as they tortured each other, they also loved each other.

And that was where the hatred stemmed from.

They said it enough, yet when Jordan closed her eyes and muttered "I hate him" to herself, it summoned tears. She never cried, but Perry's absence left her free to do whatever she liked. She moved into the kitchen with one or two tears sliding down her face slowly, and for once, there was no haste to hide them. They signalled his victory, but he wasn't here to take the glory. So, then, did she win?

No, no, because she'd come home. She always came home. As she raised her just-poured drink to her lips, a sudden surge of humiliation bubbled in her stomach and up to her arm. She threw her glass at the opposite wall. For a short moment, she was hypnotised by the amber liquid slipping against the whitewash, the crystal shards littering the kitchen floor, before she snapped out of it and headed for her bedroom.

The state of the room did nothing for her anger: Perry hadn't bothered to change the sheets since she left, hadn't bothered to make the bed or empty the room of his dirty fucking washing, and the musty smell suggested he hadn't even bothered to open the curtains, let alone the window. A stream of incoherent insults rolled fluidly off her tongue as she pulled out a second suitcase from under the bed. This way, Perry would think she'd only come back for her things, and she wouldn't have to face his wind-ups about how she _needed _him.

Her head ached as she threw anything that came to hand into her case, a frenzy of colour and emotion swelling within the room. Then, she slammed the case shut it shut and dropped her head into her hands. Jordan never cried. Not ever. How things were falling horribly out of routine! Tonight, they would not fight and have angry sex then refuse to talk for a few days… Jordan cried as she realised that this was it. She was finally going to walk away, and unless he made the effort, she wouldn't see her husband again.

Where would she go? She couldn't go back to her mother's, especially not after she'd left a few hours ago, convincing the woman she was doing the right thing. Ben would probably side with Perry and come to stay with him, which she didn't suppose would be too bad; she'd have his place to herself… but his neighbourhood was rough. Then there was Danni, who would help Jordan through this difficult time by getting her laid, a plan that Maddie and Allison would also, doubtlessly, rely on… On reflection, she realised that this plan didn't sound too horrific. Vengeful sex _had _to be better than sitting here and letting him win.

But she didn't move, couldn't move. She knew that she was struggling for breath, choking on tears, that her shoulders were shaking, and that there was somebody at the door. For once, she allowed her intricately built emotional wall down. And then the doorbell rang again, and she snapped back to reality, back to who she used to be.

To Jordan Sullivan.

"Pete." She said simply, staring at him.

"Woah, Jordan, what's wrong?" He stepped inside without invitation, hand on her arm. His touch was a little too soft, too caring, too calculated. Jordan did not see the look of intent in his eye, a look she usually pinpointed immediately.

Instead, she simply shook her head. "Nothing. Nothing," she glanced at the hand that lay on her arm and stepped away from him, running one hand through her hair. "Sorry, um, Perry's not here. Did you… want something?" She raised her eyes slowly, folding her arms as she realised he was looking at her. Just looking at her, with a little crease between his eyebrows, lips taut with what had to be … _pity_.

"My cell phone. Left it here last night. Me and some of the guys came over, you know…" Peter Fisher laughed awkwardly, "to watch the game." Sniffing, nodding once, Jordan drew herself up to her full height. "Hey Jordan, are you sure you're… alright?"

"Actually Pete, I'm kinda in a rush, so if you could just get the phone and go, I'd really appreciate it." She made no apology for her bluntness, and saw that he was quite taken aback by this. "Where did you leave it?"

"It was by the, uh, the TV."

Jordan turned away from him slowly, eyes bleary, movements robotic. She picked up the cell phone and returned it to its owner, "Can you see yourself out, Pete?" Whatever it was she said after that, neither of them was really sure. But Pete didn't leave. He simply stared at his mentor's wife as if he hadn't expected her to be in this state, as if he hadn't premeditated anything. He sighed.

"Jordan…" He had nothing to follow this, for this was all the script in his head said. Familiar with the house of his friend and mentor and his wife, Pete moved to pour two glasses of gin, only then noticing the shards of crystal and stained wall. "I'm not going anywhere." He pushed a glass into Jordan's shaking hands and moved away from her, sitting opposite with a resolute look on his face.

When Jordan opened her mouth to protest, a small, "fine," was the only thing that was audible, before a tirade of pointlessness spouted from her lips. She didn't know why she was telling this man – a friend of her husband's and nothing more – all that she was, but she couldn't stop herself. Her lips continued to move even as she brought her glass to them, and she willed herself to shut up. She was crying more freely now; the talking seemed to make it more real. She was leaving him, she loved him, she hated him.

And then, she wanted Pete.

Why and when and where all became irrelevant: she wanted him, needed him. At some point, he'd moved to sit closer to her. Then, his hands stroked her hair, his eyes fell to her lips, and he listened. He was nice to her, something she unused to and would usually frown upon. Her fragile state of mind coupled with the volume of liquor she'd consumed made her believe that this was what she truly wanted – a little bit of kindness, attention. And yes, revenge. His little prodigy, and in his bed.

It was cruel, but so was he. He deserved it, she told herself. But the words 'you love him' punctuated every movement, and her eyes shone with stubborn tears. She clung to Pete, her head turned away from him, her eyes closed to deny both the desire to cry and the guilt of betrayal. She was there, but not part of the act. Oh yes, she knew what she was doing and why, but was watching from the sidelines, clucking her tongue and shaking her head.

The next thing she knew, Pete lay against her chest, mumbling something about her being amazing. She shifted awkwardly, eyes blank. Her mind was hectic, but she couldn't pinpoint one thought. She knew that she'd been manipulated and used, she knew she'd regret it later…

It barely registered when her husband approached and leaned back against the doorframe, one hand going through his curls. It was his short, sarcastic chuckle which shook Jordan from her apparent reverie. As Pete was yanked from the bed, babbling like a desperate, terrified schoolboy, Jordan pulled on her dressing gown, eyes low. She didn't intervene when Pete was slammed against the wall.

"Get out." Perry's voice was a low, dark hiss. Jordan could see he was struggling to keep his temper, and so could Pete. He could only grab his jeans before Perry reiterated his instruction, louder this time. Even Jordan jumped.

The silence remained even when they heard the front door close. Jordan folded her arms and stared at the side of her husband's head, watching as he chewed the inside of his cheek. "I'm leaving." He scoffed. Angrily, she shucked off the chiffon robe and began to dress. Perry noticed that her eyes were red, her hands were shaking, and although she was furious, her movements were slow, as if they required a lot of concentration. He paled. "I'm not coming back."

"I'll see you in a fortnight."

"I don't think you understand, Perry," she snapped, straightening up and turning on him quickly. "I'm leaving, and I'm not coming back. I can't do this anymore, so fuck it. I'm out."

He laughed humourlessly. "Ok, darling-" She cut him off with a sharp slap across the face, and then breathed out slowly, before continuing to pack and ignoring his presence.

"By the way," her tone was suddenly conversational, "your little lackey is _good_."

It was Jordan's turn to laugh as Perry lashed out at anything he could come into contact with. Honestly? Yes, he scared her. But he'd never laid a finger on her, and she was confident he never would (unless, of course, she asked). Still, her heartbeat quickened as he started throwing things, red-faced and breathing frantic. She stared at him. "When you've quite finished, Per'."

Sudden silence.

"Save your tantrum, I'm not interested. You're only bothered because your precious _pride_ has been wounded. Save it," she gathered her suitcase and bag, glanced at her husband, and rolled her eyes. "I'll come back for the rest of my things some time tomorrow, when you're not home."

They stared at each other as she dragged the suitcase out of the room.

They both knew that this was their end.

The scent of flowers was not wholly subdued by the more powerful one of liquor, sex, and betrayal. Jordan glanced up from the floor, which she'd trained her eyes on since leaving the bedroom, to see a sumptuous bunch of roses – white, not red – sat on the counter. Next to them, an unopened bottle of gin and a note. She was curious, so she read it.

And immediately wished she hadn't. An apology, a dinner reservation, a promise of a new start. _Fuck it,_ she thought. She was taken aback by the gesture, the fact that it'd come from him. It must've taken a lot for him to swallow his pride like that.

But it was too late for guilt, she reasoned. He still deserved it. Jordan felt the regret she knew would come. Desperate, she clung to the hatred she'd grown to have for Perry: it made this easier. Who needed romance, anyway? She was not that weak.

She exhaled the breath she hadn't known she was holding, seized the alcohol and dropped it in her bag.

Then, she left.


End file.
